Indomitus
by Petros
Summary: Some bad guys are too good to stay dead.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters and locations in this story are the intellectual property of James Cameron. I do not claim to own them, but am glad to play in his universe.

.

.

Colonel Miles Quaritch awoke as he always did: Eyelids snapping open as though spring-loaded, every sense alert to his surroundings. But this waking was different, too. He'd woken under the open sky of Pandora before, but only during a two-week familiarization and survival training with a full platoon of his men. Likewise, he'd awakened in his personal mech a few times, but never with the mech horizontal and the canopy kicked out. He'd also apparently shit himself, which hadn't happened since before he could remember.

It looked to be about the same time of day as when he'd fought that native bitch and the traitor, Sully. She and Sully's avatar were gone, and he doubted she would've left Sully's human body in the trailer if he'd died. The natives were primitive, but not stupid. That meant Quaritch had probably been unconscious about a day. Any longer, and the animals would've gotten more curious than fearful, and he'd be something's snack.

The Colonel reached to check the power supply on his respirator, and was reminded that the bitch might be gone, but her arrows were still here. About a meter of feathered shaft protruded from his chest in two places; one just below his right pec, and one almost in the center of his chest, just below his diaphragm. It had to have missed his spine by less than a finger's breadth. This meant that another half-meter or so of each arrow also pinned him to the seat of his mech.

Grunting against the pain, he reached again, and came up with the readout. According to the gage, his respirator would continue filtering toxic cyanogens from Pandora's atmosphere for about another twenty-nine hours. He saw the remains of a used ampoule on his lap, which explained both his long period of unconsciousness and the fact that he was still alive, in spite of the neurotoxin the Na'vi used on their arrows. The fact that there was an antidote was known only to himself, a few of his officers, and some of the higher-ups in the company. It was far too expensive for general issue.

He powered up the mech, which has long since gone into standby mode, and the fighting machine automatically rolled, pushed against the ground, and stood to its full five-meter height. The Colonel gave an involuntary roar as gravity pulled his body down against the arrows. Tiny rivulets of fresh blood ran down his chest over the crust around his wounds. Pushing against the mech's foot pedals eased the pressure. As he started walking, he gave a sigh, and said to no one in particular, "This is gonna be a long damn day."

.

.

Walking seventy klicks in a mech is nothing. Climbing the mountains had been a real bear though, whatever a "bear" was. Fortunately, controlling the mech's arms didn't require any real strength; the user simply moved his hands and arms, and the mech followed. Feedback was only used in the hands and wrists, to let the user feel when the mech's hands encountered something.

Climbing was simply a matter of holding his fingers like claws, and alternately raising and lowering each arm. Tiring and painful, but the Colonel had been through worse. He could feel his lungs filling, but resisted the urge to cough until it became unbearable.

As he crested the last rise, the Colonel grinned, revealing bloodstained teeth. He's come here on a gamble, and as his usually did, this one paid off. He had arrived at what he thought of as the scientists' forward operations base. One of the two trailers was gone, but what he needed was still here.

Without hesitation, Quaritch grabbed the ejection handle and gave it a hard yank, while simultaneously yelling, "Eject!" Tiny explosive charges severed the control harnesses around his arms and legs, and blew away what was left of the canopy's frame. A small rocket engine ignited under his seat, blasting him out of the mech and thirty meters into the air before tiny counter-rotating fans popped out from the sides of the chair to slow his descent.

His feet touched ground first, and he released his harness and stood unsteadily. "Another win for testicular fortitude," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. On ejection, the back of the ejection seat nearly scraped the frame of the mech's cockpit. This had sheared off the arrowheads, and allowed the Colonel to free himself, with two five-centimeter shafts protruding from his back.

With small, lurching steps, the Colonel stumbled to the trailer, palmed the airlock open, and nearly fell inside. After a few seconds, the inner door gave a beep and opened.

The Colonel's legendary luck still held. Here were the medical supplies. He had no medical training, but he's seen the medics patch holes often enough that he knew what to do. The fact that Pandoran microbes ignored humans, and Earthly microbes couldn't survive exposure to Pandora's atmosphere, greatly simplified matters. He cut off his shirt with a scalpel, then simply gave a smooth pull to the arrow in the center of his chest. He extracted it with a hiss, then used his left hand to apply a skinpatch to his back, and another to his chest. The second was trickier, since it went through a lung. He prepared one skinpatch by attaching a short straw with a flapper valve at the end to act as a shunt. He removed the second arrow and applied the prepared skinpatch to his back, and a normal patch to his chest. After a moment he began to feel a trickle of blood flow down his back with each breath, and he was able to breathe deeper.

That done, the Colonel stripped and cleaned himself as best he could, hooked himself to a nutrient IV drip, and lay down in one of the interface coffins. He reached over and keyed in a code sequence, then pulled the coffin lid over himself and relaxed.

.

.

In a fluid-filled tank in a location known only to the Colonel and a few trusted contractors, a Na'vi body twitched and opened its golden eyes. Then it gave a feral, and very human, grin.


	2. Chapter 2

"What are you doing out here by yourself, boy?"

Mali'ekto spun toward the sound of the voice, shocked that someone had gotten close enough to speak without his knowledge. The speaker was seated on the trunk of a fallen tree. He was a big man, not as tall as some, but with muscle mass almost unheard of among the Na'vi. His loincloth was crudely fashioned from nantang hide, and an empty sheath was tied to his right thigh. He wore no paint to identify his Clan. A large knife made of some material Mali'ekto didn't recognize was held loosely in his hands.

"I am hunting, and learning the ways of Eywa," Mali'ekto said. His bow was in his hand, the other holding an arrow fitted to the string, ready to draw. "Who are you?"

"No one of any consequence."

"Are you a Dreamwalker?"

"Do I look like a Dreamwalker?" the man asked, holding up one four-fingered hand and touching his properly Na'vi nose.

"No," Mali'ekto said, relaxing slightly. "But then why do you wear no colors?"

"I have no Clan," said the man. He balanced his knife on the end of one finger, flipped it in the air, and with a flurry of motion that seemed no motion, the knife had returned to its sheathe. "I live on my own."

Mali'ekto was horrified. "Your Clan cast you out?"

"Not so much that as I have no desire to return to them. My Clan and I disagree on many things." A look of pain flashed across the man's face, and as quickly vanished. "I've delayed your hunt long enough. Maybe we'll talk again." Without another word, the man leaped up and ran into the forest.

.

.

Quaritch opened his eyes with a sigh that was something of a groan. He'd always reveled in the power of his body, exercising daily in keeping it sound and strong. Driving the avatar had made his human body seem a weak, fragile thing. It was a feeling of power somewhat akin to piloting his AMP suit, but he never forgot that the mech was a machine, a tool for increasing human capabilities. The avatar hadn't felt at all like a piece of hardware. It had been as natural as the body he'd been born with. More so, in some ways. The easy strength and grace were seductive, and it was easy to see how Sully had lost his humanity.

Giving one hard squint, Quaritch brought himself back into focus. His natural Human body needed tending. Quaritch drew his legs up, grabbed behind his thighs with both hands, and extended his legs slightly, allowing himself to slowly rock to a sitting position, supporting himself with his hands. A wave of dizziness passed over him, and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. The fact that he could breathe deeply was a good sign. According to the clock on the computer, he'd been driving the avatar for about ten hours. That explained the stiffness in his limbs and the pressure in his bladder.

He unplugged his IV, rotated his body and let his legs dangle off the link coffin, then gingerly pushed himself out and onto his feet. His legs felt steady, but weaker than he could remember feeling in a long time. Quaritch had to step carefully even considering his condition, since his avatar was sprawled across the floor. In some ways it looked like a giant version of Miles Quaritch. It was just over three meters tall, blue-skinned, with a tail and a neural queue at the base of the skull, covered by a braid. The avatar was thinner in proportion than Quaritch himself, but the chest was broader and the limbs more muscular than all but a very few Na'vi.

There were a few subtle differences between an avatar and a Na'vi, consequence of using Human DNA in their creation. Avatars had five digits on the hands, whereas the Na'vi had four. Avatars lacked the prehensile big toe of the Na'vi, instead having a humanlike foot. Avatars had eyebrows, unlike the Na'vi; and the nose, instead of being flat like those of the Na'vi, had a slightly raised central ridge. Quaritch noted this in the fact that his avatar lacked these differences.

Its eyes and mouth were closed, and the chest rose and fell regularly, but otherwise it looked like a dead thing. Without Quaritch's mind and will to animate it, the avatar would remain there until it died. _That's all it was_, Quaritch reminded himself. _A biological machine, but still just a machine. _Purpose-built to allow Quaritch to survive, even if everything else went to Hell.

Urinating and ruminating, Quaritch replayed in his mind the conversation he'd had with the Na'vi child. He had been pleased to find that the memory gestalts had worked. His avatar's brain had been programmed with the language, but it was still experimental. All attempts at uploading information to an active brain had failed, but it seemed Quaritch was the only one who had ever thought of trying it on one that was completely dormant. True, his conversation hadn't lasted very long, but at least he'd proved he could converse with the natives.

The way Quaritch saw it, he had two options. His first choice, the choice his gut longed for, was to simply find Jake Sully and his woman and kill them. His second choice, which would be more satisfying in the long run, would be to destroy Sully, spirit, soul, and, finally, body. His only worry was time. Sully and his little army had totally defeated the RDA's security forces. Any of his men who weren't dead were surely being forced to leave Pandora. That meant there'd be effectively zero chance of his being undisturbed after about a week or so. So, quick and dirty revenge was the way to go.

Pain spasmed through Quaritch's chest, and a rack of deep coughing ended with him spitting bright blood into the sink. _Yeah, _he thought, _quicker would be better._


End file.
